


The History Books Forgot About Us

by pendragonness



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Religious Conflict, only vague plot tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonness/pseuds/pendragonness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether his feelings are returned or not, Ragnar will always be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The History Books Forgot About Us

**Author's Note:**

> I have a thing about the way Athelstan's hair changes through the series and this started as an almost kink for that/how Ragnar might react to it, and then developed into something a little different, I guess? It all 'developed' kind of sloppily, I feel. I just haven't had the time or focused energy for this that I really would have liked and it's not ever going to happen so I'm posting it anyway. I really do apologize for the rough patches and how scattered it is.. As much as I am fascinated by Athelstan's religious crisis and his relationship with Ragnar in regards to it, it's apparently nigh impossible for me to verbalize my ideas and feelings.

They had, at first, loathed the look of one another. Or at least, Athelstan had loathed Ragnar. Ragnar, he had never been less than intrigued in the priest, even in the beginning. Where Athelstan had hated and feared the coarse, long-haired man who stank of the fishy sea, old beer, and animal pelts, Ragnar was thrilled to find a strange young man, boyish and open-faced, who clutched a book of his god over any riches with a price. A strange young man who spoke his language, who had knowledge – that which Ragnar always craved.

Athelstan saw the fascination plain on the Norseman's face the moment they first spoke. It meant nothing to him. But when the man argued with his own ferocious brother to keep the priest alive, moments after having discovered him, Athelstan wondered. And he feared.

Yet the fear came to little fruition, as Ragnar claimed Athelstan for his own and proceeded to glean from him as much knowledge as he could manage. It satisfied, and eventually pleased, both of them. Athelstan loved little more than sharing information of his God with others and helping them to learn – whether he was laughed at or not. And, to his surprise, he loved learning about other gods almost as much. He liked the way Ragnar watched him as he spoke – enraptured, eager, constantly thinking. He liked the feeling of someone being attached to him and wanting, needing him around, of someone constantly in search for where he was and what he was doing and how he felt. His Brothers had never been cold to him, but they were not warm either. He'd had little warmth from people that did not involve the word of God overseeing it.

And Ragnar loved to see the growth of acceptance within the priest, akin to his physical growth as he suddenly became less concerned with shaving his head as he had at his monastery, and began to meld in with the viking society. He heard the whispers in the camp, he saw Floki's sharp, snide features, and Lagertha's mildly raised brows. He was on the verge of alienating himself if he wasn't careful, and he knew it. But he had found an affection for this priest that was unexplainable, intangible, something he was near to accrediting to the gods. For who else could have provided him with a friend of such knowledge, such companionship? He wanted no other.

-

A time came when Ragnar learned, cruelly, how deep his attachment for his priest had become. The young man was lost to him, for a while, and when finally returned, it was as though he could live again. The sensation should have frightened him – he had never acted so with Lagertha or Aslaug, or even Rollo; maybe only Bjorn. But then, he had never had Bjorn taken from him such as Athelstan had been.

And he was too happy to give a thought to what any of it might mean.

He walked the priest and the donkey into the forest, a heavy arm contentedly around Athelstan's shoulders – shielding him from the archer he glimpsed through the trees, while enjoying the pleasant sensation of Athelstan's small frame against his body once more.

“You are a priest again?” He asked his friend, his bright eyes catching on the somber brown robe and extravagant Christian cross.

“I don't know,” Athelstan replied, “I feel like it, at times. But I'm not yet sure if I can truly ever go back.”

Ragnar studied him without speaking for a long moment and his gaze was intrusive. Athelstan suddenly felt as though he had betrayed someone he cared about very deeply.

And then there was that smile, opened like a flash, warm and bold, but shielding something, as Ragnar clapped him on his shoulder. “Well. At least you haven't returned to your awful hair from when I first found you.”

Athelstan grinned despite himself. His hair was quite shaggy now, often pulled back with a tie to keep it tidy, and he was growing fond of his short beard.

He was pulled into a sudden embrace without warning, thumping into Ragnar's chest with the force of it. The larger man wound his arms over the priest's shoulders, enveloping him like a bear.

They had bled together, and for each other. Had fought side by side, watched each other's backs. And that, to Ragnar, was as binding a relationship as there could be. He had seen Athelstan wild and bloody and free, and he wanted that back. He was a selfish man – and a passionate one, and he cared for Athelstan with utter passion.

Athelstan held no less passion for his Norse friend except that his affections were more tormented, and therefore harder to express. Ragnar was a predator in human form. A cougar or a wolf, but even more cunning and discreet, and all the more dangerous. Despite this, the man was warm and eager and enthusiastically kind to the priest, and Athelstan adored him for it – but he tried to remain cautious, knowing the predator underneath.

Athelstan had noticed when the predatory look changed. It became no more a general, wild look at the world, but something even more calculating and focused entirely on Athelstan. He noticed the change, and he felt it too. He felt it in the way Ragnar teased him about his Viking-clothing, his changing hair, his lack of shaving, the way his hand rested on his shoulder when they spoke, the smiles that were quick to come and slow to fade. He felt it in his stomach and lower, deeper. It made him anxious.

“You are going to leave again, aren't you?”

The words, so quiet, flowed against the nape of Athelstan's neck. Once again, he stung with the sensation of having betrayed someone without realizing it.

“I told you Ecbert has need of me.”

“I have need of you!” Ragnar snapped, his voice almost childish as he clung tighter to Athelstan.

The younger man winced, apologetic, but found himself returning the embrace.

“I can't explain to you what I have been through, Ragnar. Not now, at least.” His words were muffled against the larger man's body. “I have been lost, and alone, and confused, and tormented because of it, and I do not know who to turn to now.”

“You always have me.”

Athelstan smiled to himself, continuing to tolerate Ragnar's much-lingering embrace. “I know. But my soul is still tormented Ragnar – and afraid. I need time to decide what to do next.”

Silence followed his words.

Ragnar nuzzled into his neck for a moment, sparking strange nerves all throughout Athelstan's small frame, nerves which tingled for minutes after the Norseman pressed a fleeting kiss against his ear and then let him go.

The big man stepped back, forcing his mouth into a dull smile and clapping Athelstan on the shoulder once more.

“I understand.”

_ I want you to come back. _

-

So often, Athelstan wished he could find his voice. To stop this doubt, to affirm his presence in this world, to simply sleep at night. Sleep and not wake in a sweat of sin coating his skin and dampening his hair.

His knees ached on the cold rocky ground of his hut. The fine hairs on his arms felt electrified with the cold morning air as he clasped his hands before him, eyes sternly shut, face lifted past the rooftop, to the pale sky above.

_ Lord, forgive my thoughts this night, forgive my thoughts at this moment, restore me my strength and allow me to find your will in my life once more. Love me not any less for my wanderings of faith and mind, know that I do still love thee Lord, and still seek thee for guidance.. _

The words faded as he dropped his head with a gentle sigh, hands falling to rest in the dirt beside his knees. He did not feel the words he spoke. He recognized them less as words of faith and more as desperate pleas.

A crack echoed from the sky, lighting his skin with the electricity of nerves, and rain roared onto the roof of his simple home. Athelstan looked up again at the sound. It lasted no more than two heartbeats, and another drum of thunder ceased the pouring. Two soft drops slipped through the rafters, to break on Athelstan's forehead.

He stared up now, wide eyed and breathless.

_ Thor, did you hear? _  He whispered, awed.  _ Do you understand my doubts and my fears? Do you pass judgement? _

Athelstan dropped his head again, habitually bowing his head before his hands as he spoke fervently, unsure if the words were to himself or this god he felt nearby.

_ I am losing myself, I am unsure of my place in this world. I fear abusing one faith for the sake of the other. I fear a carnal spirit within me that this pagan-living has brought. I have found happiness with these people, in this land, in this life – but I fear it. I fear the touch of another man, I fear his very presence. I fear the look in his eyes and the compassion he shares. I fear his affection because I have it too. And I fear myself, for what I may do, if allowed. I cannot see a choice before me, or any path to take other than that which he and I share. My God tells me these are great sins and I will suffer greatly – is there another way? Am I doomed for these feelings? _

His breathing was tight and frightened, and he held anxious tears behind his closed eyes.

Silence followed his monologue.

-

The men lounged on the rocky bank of the cold bay as the wind teased salty spray near them. Ragnar lay back on one elbow, his fingers dragging idly through pebbles. Athelstan sat beside him and shifted, more uncomfortable in the chill weather than his companion.

“Do you want to leave?”

Athelstan turned sharply at Ragnar's sudden question. Pale, wary eyes studied him carefully. He felt that no matter what he said, Ragnar would know any truth he held inside him. He had never been the strongest of liars – had never needed to be – but this king of wild men could never be deceived by the priest.

“I don't know. Sometimes, maybe.”

“You are not happy here?”

Athelstan looked back to the bay and smiled a little at the worry in his friend's voice. “I do not know where I am truly happy anymore. I am part of two worlds now and I can never be fully happy in one without the other.”

“So you mean to say that you will never be happy here?”

Now the man was offended. “No, no, that's not how I meant it, I meant only that...” He fumbled. “It's like when you are at sea, out to raid. You love that, don't you? It makes you happy?”

He turned to see Ragnar smile to himself. “Yes.”

“But are you fully happy? Your family, your sons, they are left behind. Would you be entirely happy if you were always at sea, never to return home?”

Ragnar remained quiet for a moment, thinking deeply over the priest's words like no one else had before. Athelstan marveled.

“I understand,” Ragnar finally replied, humbled. He paused for a moment, thinking. When he spoke again, his voice was greedy.  “But you chose to return to  _me_  and not stay with Ecbert, even though he has your language and your God and your books. I still won you back.” He smirked, a sideways glance teasing toward the other man.

Athelstan was mildly amused. “I don't understand it anymore than you do, my friend.”

Ragnar's eyes fluttered lazily in some sort of bliss for a moment. He sighed, then tapped his fingers against the back of Athelstan's hand, which pressed into the sand as he lounged. The pale, puckered scar would marr the white skin forever.

“His people did this to you,” Ragnar murmured, staring intently at the mark. “Why? Why do Christians try to kill one of their own, in the way of their religion?” His question was full of serious thought.

Athelstan swallowed and he felt the familiar breaking inside of him, that space between his beliefs, full of his doubts, his hypocrisy to both faiths he held. “I am the worst kind of sinner, Ragnar. I betrayed my God and my church. Would your people not do the same?”

“No.” The words were solid and sure, as his sharp, chill gaze turned to Athelstan once more and he sat up straighter, to be even with his companion. “I would kill them if they tried. Can your Ecbert say the same?” There was silence now, Ragnar's face winking in a cruel, sure smirk. When Athelstan did not respond to his words, it faded.

The echoing sea filled the space threatening between them.

“I do not want you to leave, Athelstan. I am happy with you here. Perfectly happy.”

Athelstan turned from the dark grey waves to see Ragnar stared at him intensely as his words hung in the air, and then his lips twitched into a wary smile, in his way, his face unsure if it was ready to be friendly while his gaze was still so guarded.

Athelstan's lips curved into his small, warm smile and he ducked his head. “I know, Ragnar. Thank you.”

Ragnar's face twitched into a broader smile, white teeth just glinting through the beard.

He reached up to pull gently at the priest's recently grown hair. His eyes carefully studied the increasingly viking-esque appearance of his friend.

“You are growing well,” he observed. Athelstan looked up, wide, timid blue eyes bright against his clear skin and shroud of dark hair. Ragnar's fingers tickled the wisps loose at his his temple, then his palm rested light as a falling leaf against his ear, the edge of his cheek. The fingers stretched out to curve with his neck, so light they tickled.

Ragnar scooted his body closer, losing any elegance his actions had held, but Athelstan was frozen, mesmerized. Clear, brilliantly clear, grey-blue eyes bore into him so strongly he feared they would strike him through if he moved. The surprisingly gentle hand that barely dared to touch his skin slid softly down to cradle his neck, fingers moving to delicately feel his throat, pausing against the rapid patter of his pulse.

White teeth shone again, briefly, and Athelstan could practically hear Ragnar's thoughts: you are breathing like a rabbit in a snare, Athelstan..

The pads of fingertips found the edge of his jaw and his small chin, scratching through his short, unkempt beard to do so. They flowed over his cheekbone for a moment, then up to the bridge of his nose and he closed his eyes while opening his mouth, breathing through a soft, shaking exhale while the larger man's fingers curiously stroked the structure of his nose, his brow. Then down to his mouth, where only for a moment the touch traced over his upper lip, and then faded away.

Athelstan's eyes fluttered contentedly open just to glimpse that twitch of a smile on Ragnar's otherwise guarded face – and then he was gone.

-

“You have decided to shave your hair.”

The words sounded simultaneously like a statement and a question, in Ragnar's way. He was watching Athelstan, while chewing around a strip of meat in his fingers. His eyes wrinkled in a hidden timid smile.

Athelstan became very aware of his newest hair style – the shoulder-length braid of black curls, a feeble attempt at the braids the rest of the viking men boasted, and now the stylish shaved patches from his temples to beneath the braid.

He traced his fingers lightly over the freshly trimmed stubble. “Yes. Lagertha helped me.”

“I am sure she did.” The words meant nothing, were just words, but Ragnar loved to speak to him, even needlessly. His eyes still smiled, pale and cunning and wild.

“Do you approve?”

Ragnar shrugged and looked down to his plate. “I am happy if you are happy, Athelstan. You know this.”

Athelstan smiled, soft and genuine. Yes, he did know.

-

The things the priest would do for Ragnar; the things Ragnar would do for his priest. He would try to pray, curiosity getting the better of him, and the priest would build him Paris, a version he could touch and plan around. Maybe both of their actions were only to amuse and satisfy the other. Ragnar thought not. He did not mind the attempts to pray to Athelstan's God, although the words made little sense. Why repeat these words that did not mean what he wanted to say? Why not just speak directly? Why these verses about other people and actions that were irrelevant? He had attempted to ask Athelstan this but the young man seemed as unsure as Ragnar felt. He could see the doubt growing in his priest's eyes and, in a cruel way, it pleased him. Ragnar was indeed a selfish man and he warmed at the thought of winning Athelstan's affections and faith.

Athelstan built a miniature of Paris for his friend, smiling to himself at how easily Ragnar could be pleased and amused, almost child-like. And his questions were unending, about everything, but of late, about Paris. Athelstan relished sharing knowledge with others – a task which never ended with Ragnar, so full of curiosity, so excited by everything. He explained the fortress of the city on the water, and teased about the beauty of women, trying not to laugh as Ragnar's eyes glowed with pleasure. How could he have ever found such a companion in Northumbria? Twenty years he had lived there, and no childhood friend or fellow man of God had ever been as close with him. And now here, in the distant, cold North islands, he had found true friendship. Sometimes, he felt he had found himself as well.

“You will come with us to Paris?” Ragnar and Athelstan stood together near the large fire in Ragnar's home, which had been emptied of Aslaug and the children for the evening. Ragnar claimed he needed a night to think.

Athelstan shifted a little closer to the flames. The day had been chill, and very wet. “I think I would like to, yes.”

“Good.”

“I worry about you, though.” Sharp eyes studied him sideways, and he explained. “I cannot put into true words how dangerous that city is. It's defenses are unlike anything you know, Ragnar. They are unlike anything I know.”

“We can find a way to get past the walls and from there, it is the same in any city. Every man dies the same.”

The words were timid, but cold. The Norseman stared intently into the fire.

“That much is true,” Athelstan softly agreed.

“Thank you, Athelstan, for always being...such a good friend,” Ragnar faltered, turning to look directly at the priest, and then forced a tight smile.

Athelstan's returning look was the innocent, mild smile Ragnar was so fond of. His kind blue eyes reflected Ragnar's affection back to him.

“I like this,” Ragnar mused, reaching across the small space between them to carefully touch his fingers to the fuzz of the shaved hair behind Athelstan's temple. “You look much less like a Christian.”

Athelstan smiled for a moment, and then it faltered and his eyes dropped, trying to decide if he was pleased with the comment or not.

“I feel less of a Christian,” he murmured to the floor.

“This still worries you?”

“Sometimes.”

The room fell quiet, the soft snapping of the fire keeping the men company in their thoughts.

Ragnar's hand had not moved away, but rather, his fingers found their way delicately past the shaved lines and into the thick dark hair at the back of Athelstan's head, which led way into the braid. Athelstan noticed. His own hand reached up to take hold of Ragnar's arm in the space between them, not pushing or pulling him away, but just to hold on. He didn't look up.

Ragnar stepped forward, once, twice, hesitant and unaggressive. He pulled just as timidly, his hand at the back of Athelstan's head urging the smaller man forward. The priest moved forward complacently, almost eagerly, and keeping his head down, tucked himself into the crook of Ragnar's shoulder.

His face pressed into the oiled leather to find a solace he hadn't realized he seeked, but it did exist, somewhere close to that scent of ocean salt and tanned hide, where he could feel another's rapid heartbeat thudding against him.

Ragnar kept one hand woven into the space beneath the young man's braid, his hold tender, but thrumming with energy. The other arm he wrapped around Athelstan's shoulders – growing a bit broader every week, he noticed – and hugged his priest in yet closer.

He blinked quickly, struggling to grasp his thoughts, failing with frustration. His body moved without command or reproof.

Athelstan felt the timid stroking of Ragnar's thumb at the edge of his ear and he breathed heavily into the small space he had dug for himself against the larger man's chest. He felt Ragnar rest his chin against Athelstan's temple, the brush of the beard almost tickling. And then he felt the gentle press of lips to that same spot on his temple and with his free arm he grabbed at Ragnar's back, completing the tense embrace – Ragnar with one hand cradling his head and the other around his shoulders, Athelstan holding onto a bicep and then clutching the shirt fabric at Ragnar's back.

They froze a moment, clinging to each other as the dearest of friends, the Christian and the pagan, the priest and the king. The fire cracked distractedly.

After a couple short breaths which might have lasted a decade, Athelstan shifted, the portion of him that was too pure and too good attempting to take hold. He pushed away from Ragnar, his hand moving from gripping at the man's back to pressing against his chest, hoping to put just a couple inches of distance between them.

But Ragnar was the faster and the more decided of them both.

A swift pull at the hair beneath the braid, and Athelstan's face was lifted up and his mouth covered with Ragnar's.

The kiss was hard, and tense, Ragnar expelling his desire and Athelstan wary of how to receive it. The weight of the Norseman's body suddenly seemed massive and overwhelming, the heat of him greater than the fire, and Athelstan felt horribly small and frail in comparison.

Then his mouth was free again. His lips felt cold with the loss of Ragnar's and he stood, dazed, unmoving.

Ragnar still held him close, so close, but he watched his priest warily now, his silvery eyes wide and nervous, with a child-like confusion. He waited. Nothing was said, Athelstan could not find it in him to speak. Instead, his eyes wavered as they struggled to meet Ragnar's and then fell, to the lines of his lips. He noticed now the fullness of the lower lip, the width of the man's mouth. He swallowed.

"Is this alright?" Ragnar asked, suddenly anxious. "Have I been wrong?"

"No," Athelstan breathed. His eyes closed as he swallowed again. "No, you're not wrong."

Ragnar moved again, his body seeming massive now that he was so close to the priest, and his hands held the smaller man's face tenderly. He touched cheekbones and eyebrows and the bridge of a nose and the edge of a jaw, as though eternally fascinated by the priest's face. His fingers trembled and the sensation was reflected in his eyes. Athelstan had never thought he would see the rowdy Norseman so nervous, so openly vulnerable. He pressed his palm over one of Ragnar's hands, holding the man's touch to his face.

Ragnar ducked his head down again to kiss at Athelstan, this time hasty and soft, his lips fumbling over an eyelid, down the side of his nose, at the corner of his mouth, and then finding his mouth once more. Athelstan turned into it now, holding onto the Norseman as tightly as he could, letting Ragnar repeatedly press quick, brief kisses into his lips. It was as if the man was afraid of holding on too long.

Athelstan's lips quirked a little against the frantic, nervous assault, while the rest of him trembled. He pressed closer to Ragnar and let a small sigh escape him, just the briefest sign of weakness. And that was all the large man needed to cease his flighty kisses and turn it into a deep, languid sensation Athelstan could fall into.

The world stopped moving. The gods held time back for a dozen heartbeats, and the Lord turned the two men invisible. Nothing that happened at this moment mattered. None of it would ever exist to anyone other than them. And they did not question it. They did not question their God and gods and the morality of their souls or afterlives as they held on to one another.

Athelstan knew little of this, had known enough to lay with a couple Viking maidens and with the married princess of Wessex, but those had been over the course of years, and had been tame and different – very different than any of this could possibly be, he knew. The way Ragnar kissed alone was different; he could not imagine anything more. This was not something he had indulged in, briefly and seldom, over years, but instead something that had always been there and had been growing for as many hundreds of days as he had known of the Norseman's existence.

Ragnar licked desperately into Athelstan's mouth and shook dull, wanton sounds from them both. The priest's nervous tongue flitted, unsure, against the other man's lips and the frantic joy it gave him made him shake. He tugged at Ragnar's tunic, eager to have their bodies tight together, feeling the movement of Ragnar's stomach as he breathed. The shared sensations ran down their torsos and to their groins, where Ragnar shifted to allow his thigh to press in between Athelstan's legs. The young man jumped and then found himself pushing away from Ragnar, but still close enough they panted into each other's mouths. Ragnar ran his fingers through the spot of shaved hair above Athelstan's ear and nuzzled their foreheads together for a moment. He kissed the young priest again, short and sweet and effectively gentle, before pulling the man into his chest once more.

Athelstan was more than content to bury his face into his friend's shoulder again, feeling their equally racing heartbeats, and moving with the rise and fall of Ragnar's heavy breathing.

Ragnar clung onto the priest, his larger frame surrounding the small man possessively. He rested his cheek against Athelstan's head and looked up, trying to find some explanation for this. He saw nothing. There was no sign for what it meant. It just was.

-

Nothing occurred in Ragnar's home at that hour beyond the two men holding each other, Ragnar as large and overwhelming to the small priest as he always was, but simultaneously impossibly gentle. They spoke little, both afraid of any words. Ragnar would kiss Athelstan, heavy and warm and sure, with tongue and hot hands, and Athelstan would kiss Ragnar, flighty and timid, but finding his peace. He still feared his feelings, now returned in full by his companion, and he feared every touch they shared and every step he could feel himself falling away from all he knew.

They were finally stopped by a heavy thud on the door to the hut, spooking them both as roaring, slurred laughter followed the impact. Athelstan slipped away nimbly, his nerves full-blown. Ragnar watched him with a suffocating sense of affection as he left - quiet, nervous, flushed with his sexuality. The Norseman grinned to himself in the darkness of the low fire as the priest left without a word.

-

Once he had finally found a state of fitful sleep in the night, an unknown sensation woke Athelstan, and in the dawn he found himself on the floor of his hut, blinded and then restored, and he heard the Lord speak to him through himself, and he understood. He had been forgiven and he had been found.

-

The next day, Athelstan approached Ragnar, gleeful at the sensation of having been rediscovered by himself and his Lord Jesus Christ. Without saying, he knew he could not be with Ragnar again as he had. And Ragnar knew as well. But still he would not let him go. He could not. Ragnar looked at Athelstan and no longer saw his captured, timid priest, but a friend, a close companion and confidant unlike anyone else. He saw someone he loved wholeheartedly, and he said as much. But Athelstan had rediscovered his love for his God and even if there was no longer room for him, Ragnar, he would accept Athelstan in whatever way he must. Just to never be parted.

-

_ I ache from your loss _ _._ It was an ache – a feeling as though a hole had opened in the center of his body, and it hurt with the space of nothingness. It would never go away, he knew this immediately.

Ragnar had known the stupidity of declaring he would always protect his priest, but he had not been able to stop himself. Maybe he had brought this upon them. This murder, this slaughter of his most innocent of friends.

Rain fell down his face like tears. Tears dropped from his cheeks like the rain. It all become one, his sadness, his loneliness, and the quiet world around him. He looked up through the boughs of a tree, to the endless grey sky. Was Athelstan there - above, in that heaven of his? Did he see Ragnar's pain and sorrow? Was the sky weeping as Athelstan weeped for him, to see Ragnar in so much agony? Were they weeping together?

Ragnar dug his wrist into his eyes, returning his gaze and thoughts to the earth.

“There was so much more I needed to say to you, Athelstan,” he sighed. His lips twitched. “Maybe you knew this, and you were grateful to be spared hearing my voice any longer.” Again, his lips attempted to humor himself. “But I miss your voice, Athelstan. Your words were always so kind.” His fingers played in the dirt at the edge of the grave.

“And I will miss seeing your face. That too was kind. And all I have now is memory..” He inhaled heavily, the air shaking in his chest, thick with sorrow. Ragnar glanced up toward the sky again, his face creasing with the struggle to hold in his pain. “You were kind, Athelstan, and you deserved much better than this. I am sorry. I wanted to do better for you.'

He clenched his teeth, his eyes shut tight against the hot tears that festered within them, and he buried his face in his hands.

The short stubble of his hair against his palms caught his attention. He was reminded of the first time he'd seen the priest, that funny bald patch on his head. How Ragnar had teased the young man about it. And then, how Athelstan had grown out of it, into the make-shift viking warrior he last knew.

He raised his head now, his face released from it's state of crumpled sadness, and ran his hand across the short hair again. He pulled a short knife from his belt.

 

 


End file.
